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I’m thinking we should get some as soon as we’re done hiking. It takes a lot of calories to move this giant body around, and I’m fucking starving.
Anna likes to hike the cliffs right above the bay. They’re not quite as steep as the cliffs directly below Kingmakers, but there’s plenty of parts on the trail where the path becomes so sheer that you have to climb up the rock hand over hand.
I can see Anna ten feet above me, hauling herself up the white rock, nimble as a mountain goat. She always hikes like she’s in a race, trying to power through it as quickly as she can. I’m faster than Anna and stronger, but she’s got an engine. She never seems to tire, or at least she’d never let me see it.
I’m grinning as I climb a little faster, trying to catch up with her.
We wore hoodies when we left early this morning, because the sky was overcast and the wind was chilly. Now that the sun has come out, I’m sweating.
As I get closer to Anna, her foot slips out from under her. I catch her heel neatly in my hand, pushing her sneaker up again so she can regain her position.
“Saved you,” I say.
Anna looks down at me, tossing her long blonde ponytail back over her shoulder.
“I wasn’t going to fall,” she says scornfully.
“Of course not. ‘Cause I was right here to save you.”
She makes a disdainful sound and climbs even faster. She’s smiling, though. I can always make Anna smile, whether she wants to or not.
When we reach the very top of the cliff, Anna sits down on the shelf of rock overhanging the ocean. This is the goal, the reward for the climb. One of the prettiest views on the island.
You can see the fishing boats out on the water, and the waves hitting the rock at the base of the cliff, churning up thick white foam. Down to our left, the half-moon-shaped village clusters around the harbor, each of the buildings perfect and uniform in miniature, like a model set.
Anna looks out over the water, her pale blue eyes keen and intent. I want to know what she’s thinking. I always want to know all the thoughts whirring away inside her head.
I know there’s something fascinating on her mind—she’s never just spacing out, dreaming of nothing. Anna is brilliant. One of the only people who continually says things I’ve never even considered before.
Before I can ask her what’s on her mind, she pulls her sweater over her head so she can cool off in the sea breeze. She’s wearing a leotard underneath—dark gray, backless, with a mesh of fine straps crisscrossing over her spine.
Anna has the clearest skin I’ve ever seen. It’s smooth and flawless all across her shoulders and back, luminescent in the sun. The only marks on her flesh are the finely-drawn tattoos that represent all the people she loves: her mother, her father, her sister, and her brother. None for me, though. I wonder if she’d get one with me if I asked?
I have the urge to run my finger down the script written along the back of her arm, an urge so strong that my hand is already moving before I realize that’s weird, and I clench my fist in my lap instead.
“What’s up with you?” Anna says.
“Nothing,” I say. “Cramp.”
Anna takes my hand in hers and massages my palm with her fingers. She presses her thumbs firmly into my flesh, finding all the tired muscles, bringing them back to life.
It feels good. Really good. Her hands are soft and strong at the same time.
“I never think of you as a girl,” I blurt out.
“What do you mean?” Anna falters in the massage.
“You know how some people are sort of a cliche of themselves? I never think of you as a girl, or a ballerinaor whatever category. You’re just . . . yourself. Your own combination.”
“Thanks, I guess,” Anna says.
She’s not meeting my eye. I think I insulted her accidentally.
“There’s nothing wrong with being a girl,” I say, wishing I could explain better what I mean.
“I know,” Anna says.
“I only meant?—”
